


Touching the Queen

by TheSweetestThing



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Historically Accurate, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-20 02:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17613449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: Charles Brandon had not long been at court before he learnt the secrets of retaining royal favour.Talk kindly and honestly to the king, and he will keep your counsel. Be the merriest friend, so you cannot be his biggest foe.Above all, do not fall in love with his sister.





	Touching the Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's! :)

Charles Brandon had not long been at court before he learnt the secrets of retaining royal favour.

Talk kindly and honestly to the king, and he will keep your counsel. Be the merriest friend, so you cannot be his biggest foe.

Above all, do not fall in love with his sister.

He had always been aware of her. How could he not be? He is the king's constant companion, and she his sister. When the King and Queen took part in dances and masques, he was Mary's partner. They dressed up as rich Egyptians and poor hermits and Robin Hood's merry companions. He is lusty and she is lively, and when they discovered they had the same sense of humour nobody could stop their ardent conversations. It was all they did, laugh and jape and dance until dawn... but he cannot say when it started in earnest. 

Was it that June morning two years ago, on the day of their departure to Calais?

They had made a solemn pact on a summer sunrise, the two of them twining their hands together in the shadows of the palace and pledging to protect their monarchs. Her fingers had tightened around his calloused ones with a strength that surprised him.The early morning mist brought out the grey within her blue eyes, narrowed with determination.

"You take care of the King." She said, with a tone so confident Charles could not doubt he would. "And I'll take care of the Queen."

He had held tight to that promise all throughout the months of fighting in France, commanding the King's guard while he killed men and captured towns. When he played with Margaret of Savoy in the victory celebrations that followed, stealing her ring and heart in the process, he thought of Mary and that morning, and hesitated.

Was it then, that the admiration for his princess grew deeper? Or was it on his return?

Mary had called him the hero of Tournai as she hugged him, burying her face in his burly shoulder.

"I took one gatehouse. It is hardly a heroic feat."

"But impressive all the same! Do you know they are calling your fight the Battle of Spurs?” Mary had laughed, long and hard. “For the Frenchmen fleeing! Oh Charles, would that I could have been with you!”

She had clutched him closer as they walked down the palace corridors, telling him how she cradled her dead nephew and crawled into a bed of blood to wrap her arms around her grieving sister.

Perhaps it was further back, at the joust for the short lived Prince Harry, where she had gifted him her hair ribbon and first christened him Lancelot.

Lancelot!

 _I have become him incarnate,_ Charles thinks as his hands stroke the dowager Queen of France's back. She had cast off her heavy headdress the moment they were alone, and now her hair spills wildly over her shoulders, the cherry silk strands free and untamed again. 

The flakes of snow that dotted Charles’s clothes and hair have long melted in the warmth of the royal chambers. Outside the paned windows, the snow still silently falls, and they could be the last two people in the world. The ladies have been banished, the other envoys entertained. They are surprisingly, blessedly, left alone. Perhaps Mary’s ladies can see the strain in her face as Charles does, and hopes he will caress the concern away. He'll certainly try his best, for he cannot bear to see her tears. He buries his face into her shoulder, inhaling her sweet familiar scent. It brings an ache to the back of his throat he doesn't want to get rid of. He wants to remember this moment, of bringing Mary comfort in such a stifling place. For weeks she has been in seclusion as France waited to see if she carried an heir to the old king, but her womb proved empty and Charles has never prayed more earnestly to God in gratitude. 

Mary presses her cheek further into his damp doublet, fingers curled into the rich fabric. His arms are tight around her, clutching her close. He has heard only whispers of rumours of King Francis's attention to the poor widow, but the way Mary clings to him all but confirms them. The knave promised their help with matrimonial matters, but how could Charles trust a man who coveted Mary for himself? He's a Frenchmen after all, the new monarch... with his own queen.

Mary is _free_. 

When King Henry informed his Privy Council of his intention to marry his sister to the King of France, Charles alone had been the one to challenge such a match, to propose a betrothal with Portugal. He had to, for Mary was not there to defend herself. She was outside, gambolling around the green with her loose hair flying, with not the faintest idea her future was being decided on.

He couldn't stay quiet; he remembered how Mary felt in his arms when he arrived home. 

Only a year earlier he and Henry had fought side by side across the sea, taking towns and winning back lost territory. Only weeks ago Henry had launched the  _Henry Grace à Dieu,_ with the intention of launching a naval attack on their neighbour... and of all people, it had been Mary who had suggested the name, laughing as she advised naming it something French to truly scare them. 

France is their enemy of old. Many an alliance has been brokered and broken between the two countries. Queens Eleanor and Isabella, Margaret of Anjou and Henry's own great-grandmother Catherine of Valois... all had been Anglo-French marriages, and still they did not stop war. What would make Mary's any different? Grey haired and gout stricken King Louis would be a pitiful husband, entirely unworthy of Princess Mary's hand.

Portugal, Charles argued, had superior ships and untouched troops as well as a lucrative spice trade. The Infante John was young, and Mary would have to wile away her days away in England for a few more years, but was that such a bad thing?

But Wolsey wanted peace, and the last war had emptied England's coffers. King Louis offered them the money lost and more, far more than a few spices, and one can never refuse the prospect of more money in his purse. He'd hidden his frown in his wine glass and praised the plan, even as the King commanded his sister not to be told. Such a sound investment had to remain in the utmost secrecy until all had been sorted. 

Charles warned him Mary would not like it; Henry said she would learn to.

And that was that. 

Mary's maidenhood for peace. 

What is a woman's love, to money? Money, Charles knows, buys him all he wants and more. With coins he can be secure in his future. He will have land to live on and food in his belly. 

He had been desperate to tell her, but he was - _is_ \- loyal to King Henry, his brother in all but name.

His best friend, his liege lord, his king, graced by God with power Charles can only admire and aspire to. Charles is merely a weapon to wield but he plays his role gladly. He is good at it. Besides, he is more than a nameless subject sent to die on the field of battle. Charles is the one who jousted in the Princes place, winning tournaments and glory. Charles is his co-conspirator in masques and dances. Charles is Henry's right hand man, his constant shadow, a pale replica. Instead of being taught by the greatest intellectuals in Christendom, Charles grew to manhood in his uncle's stables.

The courtiers may whisper of him being a glorified stable boy, but it is Charles alone who has been blessed with a Dukedom. The title was not granted to him through goodwill or inheritance. He has worked hard, fought harder, and does all his king orders and more to ensure he and England are victorious, prosperous. He could not throw that away. He could not break a kingly command, defy a direct order.

The king has killed for less, and Charles enjoys his head resting atop his shoulders.

A better man would have broken the rule, found a way to imply the secret festering in his bosom that infected his every interaction with her. Not Charles. He let her laugh and dance in the summer sun unaware of her impending doom. He could not bear to break that smile, make tears bloom in those eyes. It was selfish of him, to know her fate and watch her walk closer to it day by day unaware... but he kept his promise to his king.

When Mary left, sailing into the stormy channel to certain doom, he got deliciously drunk on ale, letting the warm liquid erase his guilty conscience, and when the harlots come calling he did not refuse their services. 

Buxom brunettes and shapely blondes all found a way to his bed, but none of them rid him of the ache deep in his chest. He was morose and missing her - was not all of England? Their precious princess, sent to be the enemy's bride... 

The evening before Charles set sail to Calais to attend the wedding celebrations, Francis Bryan had smirked and advised him to find a redhead. 

As if a harlot could possibly compare to  _Mary._

He cannot say how long they have been silently embracing. Time always passes too quickly in Mary's company, and Charles is only aware of her warm body touching his. He rejoices at her being unburdened with a child, but she is too skinny for his liking. He has missed gazing upon her fair face, but her features have sharpened with grief; her time in France has aged her. 

"Are you well?" He finally murmurs. "Truly?" 

"I am now you're here." She sighs softly, face turning up from the broad planes of his chest to meet his concerned gaze. Is that his own worry reflected in her eyes, or Mary's alone? "But I must talk to you of a matter of great urgency."

Charles nods. There is much to be sorted with regards to Mary, for the dowager queen, despite being married for all of three months, has a substantial amount of dowry payments and crown jewels to haggle over with the new king.

"My brother made me a promise. Before I sailed from Dover he swore my next husband could be one of my own choosing..." Slowly, she laces her fingers through his, a small smile curling the corners of her lips. "And you know if you could order me, I would never have none but you." 

"The king made me a promise too.” Charles thinks back to their last meeting in Eltham. “May wild horses pull me apart if I marry you now without his permission."

"He has already given us permission Charles. He knows I have always borne affection for you. He knows I spoke of you alone by the waterside. How can I settle for anyone else? You are handsome and brave and loyal, and unafraid to speak your mind. You're determined but careful and far more patient than I, and you never fail to make me laugh." She inhales on a quivering breath, cheeks a pretty pink. "It was agony to watch you fighting in the celebrations for my wedding and root for the Frenchmen to win, but you shamed them all like I knew you would because you are my Lancelot, and I love you."  

"I know." He dares to reach up, to rub the pad of his rough thumb across her satin cheek. The pink flares even brighter under his touch, and his lips ache with pure want. "I love you too. I always have, but I didn't realise just how much until you were gone."

"Then you must marry me now. We cannot wait."  

He sees no rush. Decorum does not permit a hasty marriage, and there is business that may take weeks or more for Charles to sort out, but the tone of Mary's voice sparks a flicker of foreboding in his gut. He looks at her questioningly, and then Mary is talking of friars threatening her and attempting to slander Charles's good name. 

"He said you had traffickings with the devil and that you caused William Compton’s leg to be diseased."

Charles snorts. "If I had the ability to bring pestilence to folk, I would not choose Compton. You know Friar Langley is the Duke of Norfolk’s mouthpiece, and that man hates me. He will say and do anything to blacken my reputation."

"I know! That is why I am scared." 

"You don’t have to be scared any longer. I am here to protect you now." Charles says firmly.

He raises her slim hands to his mouth, brushing his lips across her knuckles. Mary shivers, though whether it is from his actions or words he cannot say.

"You can’t Charles." Fear dances in her eyes, her hand tightening on his. "We have enemies all around us, this side of the sea and abroad. Langley said in England there is no doubt I shall be married off again, to anyone but you. He told me I will never have you, and that you will not marry me." 

"You know that is not true. You have my heart, always, and I yours." 

"But I know that is not why you've come here. You haven't come to take me home."

"Of course I have. Where else would I take you?" Charles stares at her bewildered. "You are to come back to court, back to I and the King and Queen."  

She shakes her head. "The best in France have told me as I go to England, I go to Flanders. I will stop in London only to confirm another treaty and then I will be sent off to another foreign country never to see anyone I love again. They mean to marry me to the Prince of Castile just as they did before I ended up Louis's wife I _know_ it, but I would rather be torn to pieces than go there!" 

She bursts into tears. 

"Don't cry." He says painfully, gathering her tighter in his arms. Somehow, someday, she will be the ruin of him, for the sight of her in such distress moves him to do anything to make her better. "I cannot bear the sight of your tears." 

He has never seen a woman so weep. She is hysterical, clinging to him white knuckled and pale faced, gasping for breath. So violent are her tears, her whole body is wracked with spasms at each sob and he can do naught but hold her through the pain and whisper sweet nothings. Clearly Louis has scarred her beyond belief, and anger lances red hot through Charles's chest at the images he conjures.  

"Mary..." Charles says soothingly, hands moving in circles over her back. "You worry over nothing, I assure you. Upon my faith there is no such plot. He has grieved your presence every day. Do you think your brother will let you leave again so soon? He is anxious to see his dearest sister and know how you fare. I wager he will not let you out of his sight, never mind marry you abroad."

"I don't believe you." Mary sobs. 

He swallows the pain her words cause him, for he deserves it. "I would not lie to you or hide any secret plans, not after last time. When we are in England we can go petition him together for our wedding and come to an understanding. I know you will not fail to charm him."

"It will be too late by then! We have to marry now!”

"Henry sent me here specifically for your comfort, because he trusted I above all others to bring you home safe and sound. You know I would give my life for you." 

Slowly, her tears abate.

_I cannot break his promise. I cannot go against him. Everything I am is because of him._

Henry has acknowledged their love for each other, but forbidden them to marry abroad. It is an entirely sensible point of view from England, but if Mary was to write explaining the circumstances here in Paris... 

"If you write to your brother and obtain His Majesty's good will to marry here rather than England I would be more than content to do so."  

"Do you swear?"

Charles nods, delicately brushing the tears trickling down her cheeks away with one thumb. Her face is wet, and Charles is damper than ever. "I swear. As soon as a letter from the king arrives permitting us to."

"That will take too long!"

"I dare not act otherwise Mary. I swore upon oath in his presence. Besides," Charles has to smile at her impatience. "We have waited years to be together, what are a few more weeks? We are in each other's company now and have no need to be separated. And we don't need to hide our love for each other for all of England know now, and all of France."   

Perhaps it was always obvious. Matters of the heart are hard to hide forever, no matter how much they tried.

Mary frowns. "Did King Francis tell you what I said?”

”He called me Lancelot and laughed.” Charles feels his cheeks flush again at the memory. 

"I had to tell him of our love to stop his harassment of me, and he swore he would help." Her nails needle his palms as she clutches at his hands. "If my brother and the French King are both content that I will have you, which they clearly are, then I will. Now, before we are on the shores of England. Before the plots against us are too far gone to be stopped."

"I will not leave your side if you command it, if that will make you feel safe."

"Nothing will make me safe but you marrying me. Now, here in this hotel. Please Charles."

He groans, for the scent of her intoxicates him, and her closeness makes it increasingly hard to think clearly. "Mary I promised-" 

She disentangles herself from him frustrated, inhaling roughly. "Do you really believe Henry will keep his promises? You know what my brother is like. He only agreed to my request so I'd climb aboard that ship and do my duty. Do you think I have remained here in mourning, oblivious to the world?" 

She turns away from him frustrated, pacing across the room.  

"Already they talk of marriage to the Duke of Savoy or the Prince of Castile as if it is a done deal, as if only Henry's word makes it binding! He went behind my back once to arrange this marriage to France, what makes you think he isn't doing that now? Neither of us are there to persuade him otherwise and the privy council hate the thought of us together. Who is to say if I send a letter requesting permission we will even get a reply?" 

"He has answered all your other letters." 

There is nothing he can say to convince her.  

"How do I know the words said in these parts and England are not true? How do I not know you come to take me back unaware with the intent that I be married in Flanders? The French are blaming me for Louis’s death saying he died from exertions in the bedchamber and I swear to you Charles _I_ will diebefore enduring such torture again!" 

Mary draws herself up with determination, fingernails digging into her balled hands. An angry mottled flush rises on her cheeks. Her fear has washed away with her tears, replaced with pure, bristling anger, though whether it is directed at him or her brother Charles knows not. 

For a moment, Charles entertains the idea that Mary is right. She _is_ right, about Henry.

He treats her ill.

He calls her his beloved sister yet sent her straight to the enemy's arms, hiding it from her and embroiling Charles in his deceit. This time Charles is away, and the privy council have free rein to say whatever they like about him. They all hate him for the king who favours his presence, for the princess who seeks his company, for his less then noble beginnings. If their influence reaches as far as France via Friar Langley dripping poison in Mary's ear, who knows what they are telling King Henry? Sordid stories, exaggerated to garner suspicion or worse. It is entirely possible Henry has already been persuaded to arrange a marriage to a husband abroad... and what if Mary came to love this unnamed man?

How could Charles bear it, knowing her secret smiles and private japes reserved for him belonged to another entirely? Jealously and hatred for the rival automatically pounds through his veins at the mere thought. He would spend the rest of his life in agonised regret, only thinking if he was brave enough... He is brave, but enough to do this? To risk the wrath of his king?  

 _For Mary,_ Charles reminds himself. _It would be for Mary._

He had kept the king's secrets once, and seen the hurt it caused. He had been blessed she forgave him the first time, but now he has the chance to stop her pain entirely, before it even began. 

Surely Henry wants his little sister to be happy after all she has endured?

Charles can make her happy beyond her wildest dreams. The king would understand with enemies besetting them at every turn, that they had no option but to marry straight away. He had given his royal permission to their marriage after all, and circumstances can easily change... 

"If you do not marry me now," Mary says slowly, deliberately. "I will join a convent." 

Charles blinks, jarred from his thoughts. 

"A  _convent?"_

"Yes! I will swear myself to the closest religious house and nobody will ever have joy of me again!” She tosses her head back defiantly, eyes blazing as she folds her arms together.

"You can't." The words fall from his lips before he can stop them, and then he is striding across the room to her. "Mary you _can't._ "

Mary is as pious as anyone, but to forcibly remove herself from the fun of court? From  _him?_  

That would be as bad -  _worse -_ in it's own way. To have Mary on English soil but wife to no one, to have Mary close to him yet untouchable, willingly absent from fun and frolics, abstaining from his presence as if he were someone unwanted... he could not stand it. He would be forever jealous of God Himself. And Mary - the both of them would be in agony, for Mary would sicken without dances and tourneys; such festivity is her lifeblood.

"I can." Her lips twist. "I  _will._ I already look the part." 

Charles does not doubt her. She is as stubborn as her brother when an idea enters her mind.

"A life of charity would be a worthy price to pay, to not face another man's unwanted attentions." She says. "You have no idea what it is like Charles, no clue at all... being sold to the highest bidder regardless of my own feelings, marched to the marital bed and forced to endure the carnal touch of a stranger that disgusts me. I won't suffer through that again!  _Never."_

This is the passion he loves about her. Her flaming cheeks and harried breath, the fervour in her bright eyes, her heaving chest. Her eyes are swollen, red and weary and rimmed with purple bruises, but still she fights. She won't stop fighting until she stops breathing, Charles knows... and why should she not? 

Mary deserves better. 

She deserves to be loved, to have a husband that wipes away her tears and comforts her when she is ill and shares the same japes. A beauty like hers deserves to be admired daily, not closeted away in a convent. 

He thinks of hidden tokens worn close to his chest under plates of armour, and the nights spent alone where he had twined the threadbare silk through his fingers, wishing she was beside him. He thinks of the betrayed look in her eyes when he once shaved his beard, and the relief that flooded through him when she assured him he was still handsome. He thinks of her singing Christmas carols at the top of her lungs, and humming under her breath when she plays bowls, and she is snowball fights and outrageous wagers and stolen moments in silent stables. 

When she begged for her first kiss not to be from the French King he had been so close to surrendering, but he can do so now. Nothing stops him but his vow to Henry. It is the last chain weighing his conscience down... 

"I can only take so much needless pain Charles. If you refuse me now," Mary threatens, "know that I will never offer again. I will retire to a convent to the regret of all of England, and live a virtuous life wedded to God alone."

A surge of desperation ignites deep within him, because she would never ask again, and she would doom them both to lives of misery and heartache, and he can't have that, he  _can't-_

She’s entirely persuasive, and Charles has always been selfish. 

"Mary-"  

"I swear it! It is you or nobody else for me and-"

His lips against hers cease her passionate cry, his fingers brushing gently against her damp cheeks as she melts into his kiss. Their first kiss, long overdue. It is not how he ever imagined, for she tastes of salt from her tears, but Charles aims to kiss her many times. Mary sways into him breathlessly when they part, gazing up at him wide-eyed.

“You need no convent nor coif.” He whispers, cradling her face. "I will marry you."

”Now?” 

He nods. “I am not adverse to secret weddings.”

She laughs and kisses him then, sloppy and wet. 

The loyalty that binds him to her brother has shattered clean in two because he chooses _her_ , and laughter, and love, and he will keep choosing her until his head is struck off for treason and his soul leaves this Earth.  

 _Henry will have my head for this_ , he thinks deliriously, _but it is worth it_. He will go to the grave happy knowing he is loved and has loved so deeply. Knowing he has given Mary everything he is and has, meagre though it may be... it is a worthy sacrifice for a queen. His Guinevere. 

What is money, to a woman's love? Money, Charles knows, cannot keep one's bed warm. Mary lifts his heart and spirit to heights unimaginable. She will be his lady and princess and queen. She will be a mother to their children, and the thought of holding a miniature Mary in his arms makes his heart tighten with delight.

Even if he is not there to witness it, picturing such a scene while Mary near smothers him with kisses is worth the risk he has incurred.

But Charles will make Henry see, make all of them see. His first marriage had begun in the same way, so people will not be surprised. They had permission to marry after all, and Henry's blessing. Both his and Francis's, and two King's consent is surely enough. Together, he and Mary will make Henry understand they had no other option. 

The council will continue to mutter of course, but why should he care when he has Mary in his arms? His, impossibly, miraculously... but not yet. Not legally.

"Gather your ladies, Guinevere." Charles mumbles against Mary's mouth. She looks at him beaming with delight, and her joy is infectious, and they are laughing as they part with a kiss. "And we will go to the chapel at once." 

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a letter Charles Brandon wrote to Henry VIII c. February 1515, shortly after marrying Mary:
> 
> _"Sir, one thing I insure your grace, that it shall never be said that ever I did offend [your] grace in word, deed or thought, but for this [matter] touching the Queen, your sister, the which I ca[n no] lynggar nor wolnot hide from your grace."_


End file.
